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  • Maureen Stevenson


Today was a big day in the town of Brighton. There was to be a hanging, and townsfolk from all over were flocking like vultures to watch the death of a man accused of murder. As the Inn’s holster, I heard everything but be seen by no one as I was only a child to many. Thirteen years was a man’s age, but I was cursed with a young face. Many rumours were travelling through town about the accused man, but the one truth was that he had floated a man after breaking his neck over a horse. The accused had tried to steal the dead man’s horse when he had stopped by the river to rest and died trying to protect what was his. The accused didn’t get far before he was stopped and arrested. Unfortunately for him, there was a witness to his murder, and in a blink, he was tried and set to hang in the center of town today.

People were gathering around the hangman’s platform, and the chanting had begun. I quickly turned off the light and propped myself up high to get a good view; being short has its disadvantages, and watching a hanging was required in these parts; you could almost say it was a family event.

The hangman brought out the accused, hooded and bound, placed the noose around his neck, tightening it. In a flicker, his body was pushed, and the crowd heard the snap.

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